Sideways
by les-etoilles
Summary: Something is very wrong and the answer is right in front of him - he can feel it - but Dean just keeps moving sideways. Until Castiel shows up one day. slash, 5x22 coda, slight Lost crossover.


Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Erik Kripke and Lost belongs to J.J. Abrams. I am neither of these men.  
Authors notes: This is part a coda for the SPN finale and part a shameless rip-off of the Lost plot, inspired by kaiyote's vid. However, you do not need to have seen Lost to enjoy this story.

**Spoilers for 5x22 and the Lost series finale.**

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* * *

**

"_No matter what choices you make – whatever details you alter – we will always end up...here. I win; so I win."_

"_You're wrong."_

"_See you in five years, Dean."_

_

* * *

_

He's walking back to the Impala the first time it happens. They bump shoulders by accident, satin suit jacket rubbing against worn leather.

A flash. Crystal blue eyes peering into the depths of his soul.

"Cas?"

The man turns and peers at him curiously, but the head tilt which follows feels cold and unfamiliar, just an echo of another time and place. Another man.

"I'm Jimmy – Jimmy Novak," the not-Castiel supplies, holding out his hand genuinely. "We've met before."

"Yeah, I remember," Dean mutters, very obviously avoiding the handshake. Jimmy's hand drops slowly, reaching instead for the small palm of the blonde girl beside him.

"And you remember my daughter, Claire?" he asks with a smile.

Dean manages a grimace in reply, trying and failing to hide the awkwardness of the moment. "Well, looks like God set you up nice." Despite himself, the bitterness seeps into his words. "Got your family all put back together and everything."

Jimmy smiles again, and for some unknown reason, Dean _really_ wants to wipe that smile off his face with his fist. "Yes, he has been truly gracious."

Dean laughs cynically. "Awesome."

"What about you, Dean? Surely after stopping the Apocalypse, He has rewarded your service as well?"

"_The only thing you're going to see out there is Michael killing your brother."_

"_Well, then I ain't gonna let him die alone."_

"Yeah, you'd think that…"

* * *

The second time it happens, Dean's had one-too-many drinks and is dozing on the couch. The flickering light of the _Dr. Sexy, MD_ rerun on TV casts long shadows on the furniture. The screen cuts to a close-up of Dr. Sexy himself, pouting his lips dramatically as he contemplates whether or not to try the experimental spinal cord transplant on the coma patient. The screen cuts back to the patient – a young man of 26 who is so tall he almost doesn't fit on the bed. Then another cut, back to Dr. Sexy.

In the darkness between frames, Dean can almost make out the shadows of two great dark wings.

* * *

Slowly but surely, he's becoming accustomed to the "normal" life he has. Mondays and Thursdays he picks Ben up from softball practice. Tuesdays and Wednesdays he makes dinner because Lisa has a Lamaze Yoga class in the evening. Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays he drinks and pretends like he doesn't miss hunting.

Like he doesn't miss Sam. Or Castiel. Or Bobby.

He pretends he doesn't read the obituaries every morning at breakfast, looking for the slightest hint of a case. He pretends like he's not disappointed that the world's been quiet since they averted the Apocalypse.

(Though there was the mysterious disappearance of Ajira flight 316 awhile back. But Dean still has a problem – he refuses to call it a _fear_ – with flying, so he promptly ignores it.)

He hunts in his sleep, sometimes reliving old cases, but mostly making new ones. His sleep-hunts usually have happy endings – the creature dead and him and Sam in the Impala smiling, laughing, and joking. Two brothers living the good life.

But then there are the nightmares of a world gone wrong, awash in a sea of chaos and confusion. The Croatoan virus unleashed. Sam as Lucifer in a white suit. Bobby dead. Castiel dead. Himself…dead.

He knows it's just a memory of a future that no longer exists – a future that he _stopped_. But every time he wakes up in a cold sweat, he swears he can still smell the lingering odor of burnt human flesh.

* * *

He begins to take weekend trips. Sometimes he takes Ben along, like the time they went down to Indianapolis for an Indians game, but mostly he's by himself in the Impala, his hair blowing in the wind, dirty asphalt ahead of him.

If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend like its old times.

* * *

This time is different, though. He leaves suddenly in the middle of the night without saying a word to Lisa. No note, no voicemail, nothing. He knows she'll be pissed when she wakes up, but she doesn't understand the constant itch he has in the back of his mind, telling him that this is all wrong, that he should be out fighting demons and looking for his brother – not sitting at home experimenting with domesticity.

Dean needs the freedom of the open road.

He drives for four days straight, stopping only to rest in crappy motel after crappy motel. The routine of it feels familiar: check-in, unload, sleep, wake-up, pack, check-out.

It feels like _home_.

* * *

He doesn't have any real plans for when he gets to the Grand Canyon. He looks around, takes the tour, then finds a spot and sits down. It's massive and intimidating and so very _orange_, and if Dean looks all the way down he can see the tiny blue vein of the Colorado River snaking its way along the canyon floor.

He stares, and he searches, but he doesn't have a clue what he's looking for.

It's still totally worth the two-hundred-plus dollars he forked over for the tour.

* * *

Lisa surprises him by not being completely irate when he shows up back on her doorstep a week later. She smiles and hugs him like she did the first time he forced himself into her life, and welcomes him back in the house.

She doesn't ask questions; Dean understands why once he thought he loved her.

* * *

When Dean's phone rings, the last person he expects it to be is Castiel. After their goodbye (or lack thereof), he would've had an easier time believing Sam was calling him from Hell. But it is the newly-promoted Archangel on the other end of the line, as curt and gruff as ever, giving him an address and instructing him to meet him there in four days.

He doesn't have a chance to voice his objections; Castiel hangs up before he can get a word in edge-wise, leaving him with no choice but to show up. His curiosity is peaked (despite his gut instinct which tells him _stay away – don't have anything to do with angels and their dick plans anymore_), so he goes to the park as per the angel's instructions, sits on a bench, and waits.

He waits for nearly an hour before Castiel decides to show up, and by that time he's cold, hungry, irritated, and in no mood to make small talk with the _ass-butt_ who disappeared for nearly a year without so much as a goodbye.

"So what, they finally give you some vacation time or are you just playing hooky?" he snips at the angel as soon as he hears the tell-tale flutter of wings. "You finally miss my rugged good looks?"

Castiel doesn't say anything, in typical Castiel fashion. But Dean swears that as he stares at him with those unnerving blue eyes, violating his personal space just like old times, he can see the ghost of a genuine smile playing on his familiar lips.

Which, for Castiel, is weird.

"You mind-raped Jimmy again, Cas, seriously? Poor dude just got his life put back together…"

If Castiel had rolled his eyes, Dean hadn't noticed. "It's a look-alike. One-hundred percent…homegrown, I believe you would say."

He snorted. "I see you kept your sense of humor…"

"_Dean_."

Castiel's voice is deep and rough, and he moves his arm like he's going to reach out and grab his shoulder – his imprinted shoulder – but then his hand drops suddenly, and unless Dean is hallucinating, the Angel of the Lord™ is _blushing_.

"Cas?"

"_He _likes_ you."_

"_I was getting too close to the humans in my charge: you."_

"_I'm hunted. I rebelled, and I did it – all of it – for you."_

Rough lips crash against his own in a flurry of pent-up emotion. His mouth responds before his brain has time, and as Castiel's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, perfectly covering the scar on his skin, the world flashes white.

"_If you are still set on the _insane_ task of killing the devil, this is how we do it."_

"_Okay, where do we start?"_

Flash.

_Dead end after dead end after dead end. Dean wants to give up._

Flash.

_Castiel sits on the edge of the bed, head bent down. "I feel so much these days. I don't know what I am."_

Flash.

_Dean is tipsy and stupid, running his hands down Castiel's chest._

Flash.

"_Blow me, Cas."_

Flash.

"_Croatoan's spreading," Bobby says with a sigh. "The government ain't fit to deal with somethin' of this magnitude."_

Flash.

"_Sam's in Detroit, but…"_

"_But what, Bobby?"_

"_It's too late, son."_

Flash.

_It's the first time Dean's cried in a long time. Castiel sits by him quietly._

Flash.

_Dean grows colder, and the virus continues to spread. They move to Camp Chitaqua._

Flash.

_Chuck, Becky, Risa, and Jane join them._

_Becky dies within the first two months._

Flash.

_The Host leaves Heaven, and Castiel changes. Dean notices, even if the ex-angel doesn't think he does._

Flash.

_Castiel sneaks a couple pills when he thinks Dean's not looking._

Flash.

_Bobby dies. Dean doesn't shed a tear. He fucks Risa instead._

Flash.

_Castiel is introduced to the beautiful, vivid world of hallucinogens. Dean makes him to move out. _

Flash.

_Castiel goes on a mission high and gets his leg broken. Dean hides his worry in his bottle of whiskey._

Flash.

_He wonders where it all went wrong._

Flash.

_Dean's leading them into a trap. He knows it; they know it._

_Castiel follows him anyway._

Flash.

Dean remembers.

"I'm – we're dead?"

Castiel nods. "Yes."

"We didn't stop the Apocalypse." It's not a question, but Castiel nods again anyway.

And Dean's overwhelmed because everything he thought he knew, everything he thought he had achieved, had been a lie. Instead of saving the world – instead of saving everything he loves – he's destroyed it.

Bobby. Sam. Castiel.

Dean cries again, finally. "I'm sorry, Cas. I'm so, so _sorry_."

Castiel kisses him again, gently this time. "I forgive you."

And Dean realizes, that's all he's every truly been searching for.

* * *

"I thought in Heaven all your memories got put on repeat," Dean mumbles into his pillow. Dead or not, he's still tired. Castiel is lying next to him, no longer the stoic angel but the broken human – hand intertwined with Dean's, blue eyes still endlessly peering at him.

"There is no Heaven anymore, Dean." His voice is soft, but behind it lays a trace of sadness. "Not since the Host left."

"Oh," he mutters, because what does someone say in response to that? He's never been good at theological discussions, not until the Apocalypse anyway, and bringing up anything remotely related to such topics felt awkward and uncomfortable, especially given his company.

Beside him, Castiel sighs. "I don't _know_ where we'll go, Dean." Even in death, he can still _literally_ read his mind.

"We could stay here?"

It's a question; he's asking Castiel's permission because he doesn't want to lose him again.

"And wait for Sam," Castiel finishes.

And _that_ is why Dean loves him.

He smiles and kisses him. "Yeah well, someone's gotta give the poor kid directions."


End file.
